fragments of resolution
by in cages
Summary: The only difference was that she looked every bit as beautiful in ashes as she did in reality. —completely made up. drabbleish.


**a/n: i just wanted somewhere to upload this.  
><strong>**it has absolutely no relevance to any fandom, just simply misc.**

**if anyone ever _does _find this, i do hope you enjoy it.**

—all lyrics belong to elena tonra of daughter, she is a constant inspiration.**—**

* * *

><p><strong>fragments of resolution.<strong>

_shadows settle on the place that you left._

x

Jaw set taunt—body shaking, hollow eyes staring holes into the door.

Tom willed his muscles to relax; they'd tensed up like a lion ready to pounce—ready to kill. The silence creeping over him, his apartment suddenly felt claustrophobic, even to his standards.

(_leave—_

his voice ricocheted off the walls, secrets embodied and lies plastered.

—_you're nothing to me._)

Eerily quiet, but he can still hear his voice, deafening even to his own ears.

Slowly, reluctantly; his body sagged under an unseemly force. The fight in him gone, the sense behind his words coming back to bite him. Too many times he'd lost his composure, not enough times had he chased her—apologized, told her he didn't _mean _it.

Maybe she already knew he didn't mean it, but was just fed up with his indecisive behaviour, with his ignorant attitude and his cold exterior.

* * *

><p><em>throw me in the landfill, don't think about the consequences.<em>

x

Days and days and hours and nights and days.

Meaningless to him. Passing by without recognition, without any trace of interest.

Tom spent a great deal of his time holed up—caved under a mound of paperwork, sealed off from the outside world; no chance of bumping into her, no way of accidentally crossing paths.

(_it's unhealthy to spend that much time in your office—_

her words. They were imprinted into his brain—a cycle.

—_come home, we'll watch CSI and order Chinese. Your favourite.)_

Tersely, Tom pushed away his papers and pressed two digits to his forehead—he could feel the pounding against his fingertips; no doubt this would turn into a nasty migraine.

He watched CSI; he ordered Chinese; but he couldn't shake the need for her warm presence and was instead greeted with a comfortable numb.

_you're alone._

* * *

><p><em>i think i should be a little more confident in myself,<br>in my skin. _

x

He felt uncomfortable and stupid and awkward.

For Tom, being fawned over by various woman, was an everyday occurrence; but right now, as this busty brunette draped herself wantonly across him, he could not have wanted more than to casually slip away—blend in with the walls, disappear.

If it wasn't for Peter, he wouldn't of been in this pathetic situation, caught between a rock and a hard place—(and by hard place, he definitely meant this woman's chest)—and having to endure this godforsaken night.

(_you need to get out more, mate—_

the context behind his words had not been lost on Tom; they simply meant: get out, you're losing your touch.

—_how about you come with me to this fancy party on saturday?_)

It had taken a meal paid by Peter and a copy of his Tiger Woods recent matches to convince Tom to attend, and he was starting to reconsider it greatly. No amount of free food and tips on golf was worth this internal and external pain.

None whatsoever.

"Are you enjoying yourself," the woman—Catherine, that was her name—purred into his ear.

Tom's jaw flexed; the notion reminded him of _her_. The way she'd whisper things into his ear like _this boring, lets get out of here; _or; _i could think of five different ways to make this more enjoyable—they all include you and i, in a bathroom stall._

A shudder ran down his spine, her words caressing his skin—pulling him in, enticing him.

"Tom?"

For a few moments, he allowed this woman to be _her._

* * *

><p><em>setting fire to our insides for fun.<em>

x

Dark eyes watched flames lick unceasingly, affectively destroying the last evidence of _them. _Of _her_.

Somehow, he thought she'd of given in by now, come back to him and declared the whole thing silly; but he should of known really, her stubborn pride was a worthy component to his own.

As the photo burned before his very eyes, Tom watched as his face singed black—it was like his personality had finally caught up with his good looks, marring them ugly; scarred, repulsive and menacing.

(_sometimes, i'm certain you're just like Dorian __Gray_—

then the flames took her.

—_except, i still haven't worked out where you're hiding that photo of yourself.)_

The only difference was that she looked every bit as beautiful in ashes as she did in reality.

* * *

><p><em>a lifeless face that you'll soon forget.<em>

x

Butterflies.

The sensation was an anomaly; he had not felt these.. these flutters of anxiety in such a long while.

These were no ordinary ones though, they felt vicious beneath his rib cage—thumping, pushing, clawing and scratching. Something akin to worry, except he'd never admit it.

There she was, just yards away from him, and here Tom thought he'd done so well in keeping a safe distance.

How was he to know she would pick today, of all days, to go to the groceries whilst he needed to pop to the local shop for painkillers. How was he to know that she'd go to the groceries near his work, because it was convenient? And how, for the love of god, was he to know she'd spot him a mile off?

"Hello,"

(_i missed you today_—

his heartbeat in his ears, her scent clinging to his skin.

—_you're barely ever around any more.)_

Choked. He can barely stand this. "Hi,"

Her smile—radiant, as always—lights up the store, as she tilts her head; her golden hair falling over her bare shoulder—exposed, his fingers itch to trace patterns, but he refrains.

"You look well,"

_oh irony, thy art a cruel mistress._

"Hm," he's not meeting her gaze; she doesn't care. "So do you—of course,"

Silence.

Tom's grateful.

"Well, I've got to go; it was nice to see you again," she's so oblivious to the setback this has caused him. "Goodbye, Tom."

_you're alone._

* * *

><p><em>thought you said you didn't feel pain.<em>

x

One big, horrible contradiction.

Tom passed back and fourth, his hand running through his hair, his muscles tensing under the overbearing need to hit something.

Once upon a time, he would of preached of feeling nothing—no remorse, no pity, no guilt, no _compassion. _No_ pain. _

Yet, after their encounter mere days ago, Tom couldn't seem to wash her scent from his skin, lest he scrub any harder he was sure he'd of scratched his skin red raw. This feeling of constant _aching_—his gut causing him to clutch tightly, his heart beating ragged and worn.

He could of cursed the damned woman to hell for bringing out this reaction; for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Just as Tom was certain her face was a memory, her touch was a ghost in his closet and her voice—oh _god—_his gut burned, a fire threatening to incinerate him from the inside, as he thought about her once again.

(_do you even feel pain? do you feel anything?—_

sweat formed upon his brow; he trembled, crumbling beneath his conscious again.

_—i'm sure you've got a heart there somewhere. Can i have it?_)

The wall; his fist. They connected with one swift motion—his knuckles cracked, he bit down upon his lip, tasting warm metallic blood and sinking to the ground.

"You're alone," he finally said, self-pity and pain both coming into play; he _did _feel.

And here, she thought he didn't have any emotions; when she was the one who had brought them out _in _him.

_one big, horrible contradiction._


End file.
